


Holding Onto You

by PrettyPurpleInk



Series: You Are Not Broken [3]
Category: Death Note
Genre: AU, AU – modern setting, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Boys In Love, Comfort Sex, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gay Nate, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, M/M Sex, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, References to childhood emotional abuse, Self Harm, Sexual Content, Straight Matt, Super brief/minor Internalised Homophobia, love making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-12-13 13:06:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11760510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyPurpleInk/pseuds/PrettyPurpleInk
Summary: It's not always like this. I don't always feel like I'm chained down and suffocating and being crushed all at once. I don't always feel useless and pathetic and ridiculous. I don't always feel like everyone hates me, and that maybe they're better off without me.Not always, but it happens.A hell of a lot more often than I'd like.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Please, please, please read the tags! If any of the things mentioned are triggering for you, please be careful if you decide to proceed!**
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> Comments and constructive criticism are appreciated.

He peeks over his book as I walk into the room, fixing me with a silver-grey stare and giving me one of those heart-meltingly cute little smiles, that, frankly, a grown man should _not_ be capable of. "Hi."  


I can't help smiling back. "Hi." He looks so chilled out, stretched out across the sofa, wearing one of those stupidly soft-looking sweaters, book in hand, and a mug on the coffee table…and my eyes are sore and my back is stiff and at this point, he looks like one of those damn boyfriend body pillows, but not weird, and I just have to lay on him. And kiss him. A lot.  


His smile gets a little bigger as I climb onto the couch, straddling his shins on my knees and clumsily working my way up. He slides the bookmark out of the slender side of the book, tucking it in place as I brace myself over him, and carefully sets it aside on the coffee table. "Hi," he echoes.  


"Hi," I murmur, feeling a grin on my face as I lean down to kiss him.  


His answering "Hi," is pressed to my lips as he wraps himself around me — knees coming up to frame my hips, calves pressed lightly to my thighs; hands finding their ways to my waist and to the back of my neck. 

  


His mouth is warm and tastes like one of those home-made mochas he loves so much — rich and dark and bitter from the coffee and the cocoa powder, but sweet and kinda nutty from whatever dairy-free 'milk' he's used. 

  


"So, I have some news for you." I tell him as we part for breath.  


"Do you?" He purrs, pressing another kiss to my lips. "Is iiit…" he whispers, breath warm on my mouth, and then I feel his smile as his lips press again, warm and soft and dry but not chapped, and then his hand is moving from my waist, inward and down, toward the fly of my pants, a finger slipping under the waistband "…dowwwn hhhere?"  


"I mean, I have actual news, but I like your idea…"  


"Oh do you?" He asks, suddenly serious. "I'm sorry. What's your news?"  


"Ahh, it can wait," I grin, bringing my mouth to his again.  


Nate presses three little kisses to my lips, then pulls away, a bright little smile on his face. "What's your news?" He insists gently.  


"Will y' touch my dick if I tell you?"  


I can almost feel the effort of him trying not to roll his eyes at me. "Maybe." The hand on my neck slides back, fingers slipping into my hair, and scratches lightly. If I could purr, I'd be purring, 'cause that feels _good_. 

  


I can't help closing my eyes at the touch, torn between feeling chilled out and turned on; and then panic grabs my gut and gives it a sharp, jerking, _twist_ and I remember why I'm here. "I, uh," I sigh, blinking my eyes open, "I…called my parents earlier today ahh-nd told them about you," I confess hesitantly. "A-about, uh…my boyfriend."  


Nate's eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline and stay there as he blinks owlishly at me. His mouth falls open, a soft, breathy, "Oh," slipping out. "How- h-how do you feel?" He whispers, unintentionally, I think, his hands migrating to rest on the small of my back.  


"I'm fine. I mean, I guess I'm still thinking about it, y'know, they were kinda quiet about it, so…lotsa- was a lotta…dead air, for a minute…" I tell him, wiggling down so that I can lay my head on his chest, my temple coming to rest just below his collarbone. His sweater _is_ soft, and damn he smells good. "I tried to explain it, the whole exception to the rule thing, but I dunno if they really understood. I mean, I know they heard the words, but don't think it sunk in. Mom seemed t'…"  


"What?"  


Her hesitant, hopeful speculation rings in my head — _"So- so you're experimenting. Exploring your options. A-a lot of people your age are- are doing that now…"_ — and irritation makes my jaw tense all over again. "I don't wanna say it. It…it pisses me off. Can I not?"  


Nate's arms, laying more across the middle of my back now, tighten around me. "Okay… Are we done talking about it for now?"  


"For now, yeah. Unless you…?"  


"If you're sure you're alright, then I'm alright to come back to this another time."  


"Yeah, yeah, I'm good. It seemed, I guess, positive overall, so."  


He turns his head, lightly pressing his cheek to my hair. "Good! I'm happy it went well for you, Matt."  


I crane my neck to press a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, Sugar Butt." 

His body shakes with soft laughter and he sighs contentedly into my hair. 

  


"…Do I want to know why you're calling me Sugar Butt now?"  


"Probably not, no…"


	2. Chapter 2

I can feel a nervous flush in my face and down the back of my neck as I wait with the phone pressed to my ear. I swallow the urge to yawn as I listen to the ringing, but it comes right back up, rushing out of my mouth in a huff. The fingers of my free hand are drumming on my leg and another yawn is starting to work itself up as the ringing finally stops. My heart throws itself against my ribcage then swan dives into my gut as a voice finally, but somehow way too soon, comes over the line. "Hello?"  


"Hey, Dad." My voice is shaking a little, but I hope it doesn't worry him; it shouldn't, not much, he knows how I am with phone calls.  


"Matt! 'S good to hear from you, Buddy! How y' doin'?"  


"I'm- I'm good. Is, uh…'s Mom there? I kinda wanted to…talk to you guys together."  


"She's here somewhere. Lemme go get 'er…" There's a pause, but I don't hear him setting the phone down. "…Is ev'rything okay, Buddy?"  


Another wave of nerves crashes over me; my palm feels sweaty against the phone. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." He makes this little _if you say so_ noise, and I hear him set the phone down this time. 

  


I move the phone away from my face and blow a heavy breath at the ceiling. I kinda feel like I might throw up. _If I hung up, would they call me back?_  
_Probably._  
_Maybe I could put it off for just one more day; really think about what I want to say and how to say it…_  
_But I've been using that excuse for about a week now, and it hasn't done me any fucking good yet…_  


"Matt! Hi, Honey!" I wince at the near-shriek in my ear.  


Despite the way my hands are starting to shake, I can feel a smile on my face. "Hi, Mom."  


"Oh it's so good to hear your voice! We miss you."  


"Miss you guys, too. I'll have to make a drive up soon."  


"You make sure you do," she says, and even though her tone is light, I know she's serious.  


"I will, Mom. Promise."  


I hear her start to say something affirmative before Dad cuts in. I've always appreciated his ability to keep me on track when I get like this. "So what was this about, Matt? Not that we aren't happy you called, just sounded pretty serious."  


"Did somethin' happen, Hun? Are you alright?"  


"I'm, yeah- I'm f-fine, really, I'm good," I babble. I can feel sweat beading at my hairline. "I'm…I'm, uh…seeing someone. Well. Dating. Pretty seriously, I think. H-h-his name's Nate." 

  


As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the room becomes a vacuum: all I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears. I can't draw a breath, there's no air here. Just as the sounds of waves start, a quiet little "Oh," breaks in. I can't tell which parent it comes from and I don't know if that makes it better or worse; but the broken silence somehow helps me find my lungs and I manage to suck in a shaky breath. _In…out…in…out_ …and as I'm scrambling for the next one, I hear Dads voice, "Alright… Okay, so…s-so…you're…gay."  


I'm shaking my head even though I know they can't see me. "No, I'm- I'm not gay. I just…it's just him. I've never thought about guys like this, never felt this way about guy, or a girl, even. I mean, I've liked girls, I've been in love, but…but it never felt like this. Not this…right." 

It feels corny and embarrassing and ridiculous to say out loud, but more than that, it feels good. It feels really fucking good. It feels like I've poked the hole in this bubble of tension surrounding me, but instead of popping, it expands, but that's okay 'cause it's thinning as it goes, and I've got breathing room now. I manage a breath so deep that it makes my chest ache. I think I can feel a smile on my face–  


Then it's gone.  


"But you're still attracted to women, you'll still settle down with a woman," Mom says, more like she's trying to convince herself than actually asking me. "This…this is okay, it's just…experimenting. Exploring your options. A-a lot of people your age are- are doing that now. It's–"  


"No. No no no no. It's not- I'm not- no. Look, if it had been any other guy- well, no, there- there wouldn't have been. If I hadn't met Nate, we wouldn't be having this conversation. This isn't exploring my options, I would never have considered there being other options for me if I hadn't met him. This isn't a phase for me, it's a- it's a one-time thing. If this doesn't work out—" my heart clenches at the thought "—then I can tell you for sure that Nate'll be the only boyfriend I ever have… I don't know how else to explain it." 

  


I can feel the tension trying to creep back in, and I know the longer I stay on the phone, the worse it'll get. I need to hang up before it gets under my skin.  


"I get that this is big news, it was a helluva shock to me, too, when I…" My hand comes up to rub at the back of my neck. "Anyway. I'm gonna hang up and uh, give you guys some time to think about it or whatever, okay?"  


"I think that's a–" Dad starts and clears his throat and starts again. "I think that's a good idea, Matt," he says, very diplomatic. "We love you, Buddy."  


"Love you guys, too."  


"Keep us updated, okay? Take care a' y'rself."  


"Yeah. Yeah, I will…" I wait, but he doesn't say anything else. "…Bye."  


"G'bye."  


And then the line's dead. 

I hit _End_ and drop the phone next to me, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. _Quitting's hard_.


	3. Chapter 3

_Mom and Dad are arguing downstairs — "You can't just make him leave! He's your son! Where's he gonna go?" verses "I don't care. He can't stay here. He's gotta go." I can't tell who's who._

_Tyler's sat on the end of my bed, watching me pack a bag. "Where're you gonna go?"_

_My throat feels tight, but I can't cry, I can't let him see me cry, he'll just worry more. "I dunno. I'll figure somethin' out. I'll be okay."_

_"Can't you stay with Nick?"_

_"I dunno. Maybe." I'm zipping up the backpack and slinging it onto my shoulder. "I gotta go now, okay?" And he nods and stays sat._

___  
_ _ _

_____ _

_I'm getting into the back of a car I don't recognise, dropping my bag onto the seat next to me. There are tears on my face._

_  
_

__

_I'm in an old house, condemned probably. The floor's rotted, wallpaper peeling, dust, cobwebs, mildew everywhere. My clothes are filthy and worn._

_They're tryna kick me outta here, too, so I'm hiding._

_There are people wandering around, their clothes as beat up as mine, hair and faces filthy; they're dead behind the eyes._

_I'm hidden behind a crumbling wall when one of them shambles over, and somehow he doesn't see me as I run past him._

___  
_ _ _

_____ _

_I'm running and running and then I'm not. I'm in an abandoned warehouse and they're still looking for me._

_There's a hole in my head. Where my temple is — was — is now a hole, and it's attracting them, whoever's looking for me. I don't know how, but I know that it is, so I pull my hood up._

_But it keeps slipping._

_I'm running and holding it forward, but it's slipping out of my fingers._

_It's bleeding now, pouring blood down the side of my head._

_I'm cowering behind a crate or something, and my hood is sliding back. I'm holding it in my fists, my forehead pressed to the heels of my hands, but it's no good._

_They're gonna find me._

___  
_ _ _

_____ _

And then I'm awake. 

_____ _

  


_____ _

When my eyes open, the night sky is softening into a barely-bluish grey. It's just enough light to see Nate laying next me — he's on his back, head turned toward me, a hand rested part-way between our faces in a vague approximation of a fist. Part of me wants to lean over and kiss it, but when I consider that I might end up getting accidentally smacked in the face, I decide against it. 

_____ _

It's then that I realise I could move if I wanted to. It was a fucked up dream, but it wasn't one of those. I can breathe, I can move, I'm not happy to be awake, but I'm not terrified; and just because it feels so good to be able to move, I reach behind me, blindly groping under the pillow until I've got my phone in my hand. The light's blinding, so bright that I can hear my eyelids squeezing together to block it out. It takes a few tries, but I finally get my eyes to cooperate long enough to check the time, 3:48, and promptly shove the phone back under the pillow. Nate'll be waking up in a little over two hours, and as much as I love the idea of sleeping in past noon, I know I'll be waking up with him, so I just lay there and look at him for a few minutes — the tangle of his pale hair on the pillow, the softness of his parted lips, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes — until the adrenaline wears off and I can sleep again. 

_____ _

  


_____ _

  


_____ _

"Babe, I don't see it…" 

_____ _

"It's the one with almonds on the carton," he snarks playfully. 

_____ _

"Yeah, I _know_ –" 

_____ _

"Let me look," he says, voice soft, and comes to stand beside me. In that same moment, he sighs a laugh. "It's there, in the door." His voice is nearly a whisper, but I can still hear that he's laughing at me. I grab the carton out of the fridge and hand it to him, feeling a little bit like I want to slam the door shut. It takes a couple seconds of drumming my fingers against it to decide not to. "Matt?" 

_____ _

"I'm- I-I'm just in your way. I'm gonna go sit." I tell him, pushing the door shut. 

_____ _

He reaches up to lightly press the pad of his thumb to the cleft of my chin. "Okay," he smiles, just a tiny thing at the very corners of his mouth. When I manage something like a smile back at him, he takes his hand away. 

_____ _

  


_____ _

As I turn on the TV, I can hear the heavy sloshing of Nate shaking the milk carton. There isn't much on before seven a.m. on a Thursday, so I settle for what looks like really early episodes of some '90s sitcom. The laugh track doesn't make me want to change the channel, so maybe my mood won't be too bad today after all. 

_____ _

Nate's quiet, but the TV's down low, and I realise that I can still hear him prepping: plastic tubs being shifted into place, measuring cups and spoons jangling and clattering as he picks them up and sets them down again, the thick glass of a measuring jug coming to rest on the counter — that seems to be almost everything. Except for two ingredients; and they're on a shelf just a little too high for him to reach without climbing up on a chair. 

_____ _

I fling the remote onto the cushions beside me, ignoring how it bounces off the couch and onto the floor, and stand, heading to the kitchen. 

_____ _

  


_____ _

I can practically _feel_ Nate watching me from the corner of his eye as I get near the fridge, but his hands keep moving. I open up the cabinet beside it, pushing a few little seasoning bottles aside until I find what's needed. 

_____ _

"Babe." I call. He glances up at me, then down at my outstretched hand, and offers a silent-thank-you smile, carefully extracting the containers from my hand. I watch him as he puts the vanilla extract in it's place — with the 'liquids', of course, and to the right of the olive oil bottle — "…I, uh…" I begin; his hands pause on the tub of baking powder as he looks back up at me. "I'm sorry about before. I'm not mad at you or anything, I just- I had a shitty dream and I haven't managed to shake it off yet. Didn't mean to snap at you, I'm sorry." 

_____ _

He smiles and shakes his head almost dismissively. "It's okay," he says quietly. "…Did it have anything to do with the call with your parents yesterday?" 

_____ _

"Probably," I admit, but I don't wanna think about it. "Anyway," I nod at the counter, "still want help with that?" 

_____ _

"Sure." 

_____ _

  


_____ _

We work in comfortable quiet, Nate measuring out the dry ingredients with effortless precision, each measurement neatly levelled off with a butter knife before he adds it to the bowl and lightly whisks it together; he leaves the liquid measurements up to me. Sometimes he'll double check my measurements, making sure that the milk is level with the 'cup' line, ensuring that the tablespoons of oil are not overflowing — but he seems more relaxed today, and opts to grab blueberries out of the fridge instead. 

_____ _

One of the first things I learned about Nate is that he's very much a _do it right or don't do it_ kind of person; it was about a month after that realisation that he told me that it wasn't run-of-the-mill perfectionism, but OCD and a _fear_ of failure. Three months into our _Official Romantic Relationship™_ , I'm still learning how he needs things to be. His routines are easy enough to work with, it's the subtleties and particulars involved with things like cleaning and food prep that are a little trickier. But while I'm learning how to get it right, he's working on easing up, and I think it's the understanding that we're both trying that makes it that teeny bit easier for the both of us.

_____ _


	4. Chapter 4

  


— **Tyler – 13:49**  
[Hey]  
[Heard Mom  & Dad talking the other day]  
[Is it true,]  
[*?] 

  


— **Tyler – 15:13**  
[You better not b ignoring me]  
[Unless ur having a shitty day. In that case, sorry for guilting you] 

  


— **Tyler – 15:20**  
[If you're ignoring me im gonna punch you in the dick]  
[I'll fuckin do it don't test me] 

  


— **Tyler – 16:52**  
[Come on man! We have a system for this!]  
– **16:53**  
[Matt] 

— **Matt – 16:54**  
[I'm fine don't panic] 

— **Tyler – 16:54**  
[Then why the f]  
[The fuck were u ignoring me all day??]  
[Asshole] 

  


— **Tyler – 17:02**  
[MATT I SWEAR TO GOD]  
[I WILL KICK U IN THE THROAT] 

  


— **Matt – 17:08**  
[What did they say?] 

— **Tyler – 17:10**  
[They said you told em u have a boyfriend but you said ur not gay] 

  


— **Matt – 17:15**  
[It's true.] 

— **Tyler – 17:16**  
[Really?]  
[You really have a boyfriend?] 

— **Matt – 17:16**  
[Yes] 

— **Tyler – 17:19**  
[Cool]  
[Okay]  
[Do I say congrats or is that weird?]  
– **17:20**  
[Sorry mom and dad r being weird about it but im happy for you]  
[Still gonna punch you in the dick for ignoring me] 

— **Matt – 17:23**  
[I wasn't ignoring you, you big baby. I was busy.] 

— **Tyler – 17:23**  
[Yeah doin what] 

— **Matt – 17:23**  
[My boyfriend] 

— **Tyler – 17:24**  
[EW! Why would u tell me that!] 

— **Matt – 17:25**  
[You asked.]  
[Can't lie to my baby brother] 

  


— **Tyler – 17:30**  
[You're an asshole] 

  


As I'm considering my next reply, warm lips press to my cheek. I feel my smile widen and as Nate begins to move away, I turn my head to look at him. He's smiling, too, and leans in again, lightly pressing his forehead to mine. "I missed this," he murmurs, touching a fingertip to my bottom lip. "Almost a week with no smiles." 

"Isn't that a kids' book?" 

"I don't think so, no," he laughs, sitting back a bit. 

"Well you should get working on that," I tell him, "you're better with words than I am." He narrows his eyes in that _you told a terrible joke and you should be ashamed…but it was kinda funny_ , way. "An' anyway, I was smiling earlier." 

He rolls his eyes. "Your dopey post-sex grin doesn't count, Matt." 

"It counts." 

"It doesn't," he insists. "Not that it isn't nice to see–" 

"–To be the cause of–" I interject. 

He smiles a little. "–But it doesn't count. _This_ is a genuine, happy smile, and it's been too long since I've seen one on you." 

I feel a little guilty at hearing that; does he think he doesn't make me happy? "I'm sorry, Baby." 

"Don't be. You've had a lot on your mind. Honestly, I think I'd have been _more_ worried if you _had_ been smiling all week." 

  


Slowly, I slide sideways, until I'm leaning on him and resting my head on his shoulder. After a pause just long enough for me to get comfortable, Nate rests his head on top of mine, his cheek pressed to my hair. "Sorry I worried you," I mumble, reaching for his hand. He weaves cold fingers between mine and gives a little squeeze. "…Tyler texted me. Said he heard mom and dad talking after the call." Nate doesn't say anything, but his thumb starts rubbing the side of my hand. 

With my free hand, I grab my phone from where it rests in my lap, tap in the passcode, and offer the device to him. 

  


There's a long moment of silence as he reads, and then a scandalised, "You told him we were having sex?" 

"No! I- not…really. I mean, it was _implied_ …" 

"You're ridiculous," He says, voice all soft and sweet. As he moves to give the phone back to me, it vibrates between our hands. 

"You love it." 

"I do." Warmth fills my chest and the first thought in my head is _kiss him_ , but his face is still pressed to the top of my head and I kinda don't wanna make him move. So I check my phone instead. 

— **Tyler – 17:42**  
[Hey asshole you didn't even tell me his name] 

"Oh shit, guess not," I mumble and Nate hums an inquisitive little sound. "Take a picture with me?" I get another hum, an affirmative noise this time, and pull up the camera. Nate's eyes meet mine via the screen and he _smiles_ at me, one of _those_ smiles, the ones that make me think, _I hope he never stops looking at me like this_. It takes me an embarrassingly long moment to remember that I'm supposed to be taking a picture. I snap a few in quick succession, just in case, and send one to Ty; _His name is Nate_ only seconds behind. 

  


— **Tyler – 17:48**  
[You guys look happy]  
[All cuddled up and couple-y] 

— **Matt – 17:48**  
[We are all of those things] 

— **Tyler – 17:49**  
[Im happy for you guys]  
[I know i already said it but i mean it]  
[Can I show this to mom  & dad? Might help if they see how happy u r] 

I lift my head from Nate's shoulder so I can see his face, and show him the messages. After a pause to read, he nods with a shrug of his shoulders — _"Sure. Why not?"_ the motion seems to say. "You goin' quiet on me?" I ask, voice low. Nate nods again, a tiny, apologetic curve to his lips. "Is somethin' wrong, Babe?" He shakes his head. "Just feeling quiet." It isn't really a question but he nods again anyway, then squeezes my hand, letting it fall from his as he stands. It's almost 6; he'll be starting dinner any minute. "Do you want some help?" I offer, resisting the urge to grab his hand and tug him back down next to me. 

Gently, he shakes his head, and I understand then. He's thinking something through. It isn't so bad that it forced him into a sudden silence, but any silence at all isn't a _great_ sign. Whatever it is, I'm sure he'll tell me when he's ready. A sudden _No he won't_ grips my chest, but I knock it loose with a sharp huff of a sigh. Nate glances down at me then, eyebrows pulled together in concerned questioning. "I'm okay. Just a thought. It's gone," I assure him. He hesitates a moment, but when I promise him, "I'm fine, really. It was nothin'," he reaches down to touch my cheek, then heads to the kitchen. 

— **Matt – 17:53**  
[Yeah, go ahead and show 'em]  
[Hope it helps.] 

  



	5. Chapter 5

  


Nate's been doing breathing exercises for almost half an hour, eyes closed, with his head on my shoulder. He's holding my hand, grip firm but relaxed for the most part. "What time is it?" He asks as he exhales.

"’Bout two-thirty…two-twenty four," I amend, glancing at the clock on the screen in front of me.

He breathes in…holds it…exhales slowly. "One hour and sixteen minutes." I make a little affirmative noise. "We're due to land in one hour and sixteen minutes." He breathes again, long and slow. "And then I'm going to meet your dad. Then your…mother—" his voice almost trembles on the word "—and your brother."

I squeeze his hand and the measured breaths resume. "You already know Ty likes you, so, one down, two to go."

"Four to go."

"Nick and Luc won't be there — I'm sure they'd like you, too — but you don't have to worry about them right now."

"Right… Just your parents…"

  


He's quiet for a few minutes, his breath quickening just a little before he opens his eyes and looks at me. "I'm worried about what they'll think," he says, his voice a panicky near-whisper.

"Think of what?"

" _Me_. Us…"

I rub the back of his hand with my thumb. "I'm a little worried, too," I admit, "I'm worried that they're gonna be awkward, 'cause I don't think they ever expected to be meeting a boyfriend; but I really do think they're gonna like you." He frowns at me. "I mean it. I can't think of a reason why they wouldn't."

"No? Well, I have a list — there's my eating disorder, PTSD, and OCD, my anxiety and selective mutism, and the fact that it's my fault that their son is gay."

  


A wry smile settles on my face. "First of all, they have a lot of experience with anxiety, so that's really not gonna be an issue. In fact, they'll probably find the quiet a nice change from my mumbling to myself. Secondly, you're working on all of that, you're battling and _conquering_ that shit, and no part of that is a reason to dislike you. Your strength and determination and perseverance in the face of all that are reasons _to love you_."

Nate's shoulders sag and he sighs as the tension slips away. He stares at me for a moment before he's pressing his forehead to my shoulder, hiding his face. "I'm still the gay that turned their son," he insists feebly.

I bring my free hand up to pet his hair. "Baby. My family don't have any problems with LGBT, if they did, I wouldn't be taking you to meet them — I wouldn't put you in any kinda situation that could hurt you. They might live in the south, and my mom might be southern as hell, but they aren't _that_ kind 'a southern, they're not gonna start spouting bible verses and try t' ship us off to a conversion camp, okay?" I lower my voice and lean in, murmuring with my lips at his ear, "…And you didn't _turn_ anybody; yours is the _only_ dick I like." 

Nate pants the softest little laugh and lifts his head to brush a kiss onto my cheek.

We spend the rest of the flight with our heads together, sharing a pair of earphones and watching cartoons.

  


  


An hour and twenty nine minutes later, we're standing near the taxi rank outside Arrivals. Nate's tucked against my side, his arm tight around my waist. He's wearing my best earphones, plugged in to his phone while he's playing a puzzle game; I can hear the faint sounds of whatever music he's listening to, but I can't tell what it is. My arm is slung across his shoulders, my fingers drawing idle lines on his upper arm as I watch for cars.

But it isn't a familiar car that catches my eye, it's a face.

"Dad!" I give Nate's shoulder a squeeze before stepping away from him.

"Hey, pal!" Dad pulls me into a tight hug, squeezing like he hasn't seen me in years. I hug him just as hard. "How ya doin'?"

"’M good, Dad. Really good."

"Glad t' hear it, bud," he says, patting me soundly on the back and letting me go. He glances pointedly over my shoulder and my heart thuds against my ribs; Nate's must be going crazy.

"Dad, this is Nate," I turn to gesture to said boyfriend, standing about a foot behind me, earphones removed and phone tucked in his pocket; he steps forward, tugging the suitcase with him, and forces a weak smile onto his face. I wrap an arm around him again, and he leans into me a little. "Nate, my dad, Mail."

Dad smiles, offering his hand. Nate reaches out to shake it. "It's nice to meet you," he manages, voice stronger than either of us probably anticipated.

"You look like you wanna say it's terrifying," Dad laughs. Nate blushes faintly. "Look, I'll spare ya the ‘What are your intentions?’ routine — A, 'cause it's ridiculous, and B, Matt's already told us about you. He says you're a good person, you're understanding, and a pretty good influence; if all that's true, you have nothin' to be worried about."

Nate's smile strengthens, still small, but genuine. "Th-thank you."

Dad looks like he wants to reach out and muss Nate's hair or something, but decides against it. "Well, if y'all are ready, we better get going, shouldn't've parked where I did."

  


The drive's long, even with minimal Thursday afternoon traffic. The radio's on, turned down low, and Dad talks for while — "Nick's backpacking through Portugal with his fiancé, your Mom reads her blog and has all the pictures they've posted saved on the computer. He said to ask you about an external hard drive… Tyler's goin' nuts without Luc around. We got this raccoon that keeps gettin' in the trash, Tyler went out and got it some expensive-ass dog food and it's own damn dish! He sits out on the porch, talkin' to it while it eats. Says he got the idea from book y' gave 'im. Your mama's sure the damn thing's gonna give 'im rabies… You like animals, Nate? Matt says you're vegan."

Silence follows the question. I glance over and see Nate's head lolled to the side, his neck at an angle that must be uncomfortable, but his face is nothing but peaceful. "He asleep?"

"Yeah." I can feel myself smiling, and dad chuckles. I scoot as close to him as I can, and reach over to shake his shoulder. "Nate. Hey… Hey." His eyebrows pinch together a little and he sighs a soft, inquisitive sound. "C'mere." Gently, I pull him toward me. He blinks his eyes open, glancing blearily around the car. "’S okay, c'mere."

He shuffles closer, laying his head on my shoulder and settles against my side. "There yet?" He mumbles.

"Nah, still a little while, Babe. Go back t' sleep."

"’Kay," he sighs, fidgeting a moment more, then stills again.

  


It's comfortably quiet for a few long minutes. I rest my cheek lightly on Nate's hair, gazing blankly out the windshield. The song on the radio makes me smile — I remember hearing Nate singing it to himself in the shower a week or so ago. I'd spent the rest of the day humming off and on, watching his face go red every time he noticed.

So he played the song on repeat, turned up loud, while we made dinner. Then set it as his alarm tone for the next morning. And continued playing it all through making breakfast.

Later that morning, when I'd stepped out of the shower to see him sitting on the closed lid of the toilet like the king of not-so-passive-aggressive-vengefulness on his throne, I realised I'd been singing.

I decided then, that messing with him like that isn't a good idea, unless I'm prepared for war.

  


"…Matt?" Dad's voice snaps me out of my reverie, and I look up to catch his eye in the rear view mirror.

"Yeah?"

"I wanna apologise to you, from me and your mom, for how we reacted."

"It's okay," I tell him, but even a little under a month later, I don't know how sure I am that I mean it.

"No it's not. It wasn't right. That's not how a parent should react when your kid tells you they found somebody that makes 'em happy. It shouldn't've- it _doesn't_ matter that that person is a man. What matters is that he treats you right, and makes you happy. We were being shitty parents, and it wasn't 'til Ty showed us that picture 'a th' two 'a you, that we realised it. The look on your face…never seen you look that kinda happy before, not with anyone…" _I've never been this happy, never felt like this_ , I think, butterflies coming to life in my stomach. "…You know she has that picture saved, too?"

My stomach clenches, with nerves and excitement; Mom only saves pictures if she thinks they _mean something_. Nick's sent her pictures of himself with girlfriends before, but she's never kept them; not until Sara; and now they're globe-trotting together, and after just 8 months she's got an engagement ring glittering on her finger. "Sh-she does?"

"Sure does," Dad says, like he knows what I'm thinking. "It's one of her favorites of you; she says the two 'a you look cute together."

"Damn right we do," I grin and Dad laughs loudly.

  


Conversation's easy after that. We talk about how Luc's settling in, wonder if Nick will be home for the holidays and if Nate would want to come; and from there we drift into the topic of past Christmas'.

"…Wasn't the year Nick tried to drink gravy right out the boat?"

"I'm surprised you remember that," Dad chuckles. "Got you that Gameboy that year, couldn't take your eyes off it. You still have that thing?"

"Uh, sorta."

"Sorta? Did you lose it, or trade it for Pokémon cards?" He jokes.

"I-I have it," Nate says, his soft, sleepy voice startling me; I hadn't realised that he'd woken up. "Matt gave it to me…f-for my…birthday this year." He sits up slowly, reaching for my hand as he rolls his neck. I slip my fingers easily between his.

"That so? You know how possessive he is of th' damn thing? Near 'nough broke 'is brother's hand once, for tryna touch it!"

Nate fixes me with an astonished, questioning look and embarrassment floods my cheeks. "I did _not_ ahlmost break his han'. I got mad 'cause he was tryna take it while I was still playin'," I tell him, then turn to address dad. "I was just a kid, you can't hold it against me f'rever."

"You were _thirteen_."

"Thirteen?" Nate echoes. "You told me you'd had a for a few years, but…"

"Got it when I was nine. So, almost fifteen years."

"And you gave it to me?"

I shrug a shoulder. "You like Tetris; I wanted you to have it." He smiles at me, the way he did when I gave him the console, pure and wide-eyed and disbelieving, and way too joyful for someone receiving an out-dated, third-hand toy. But I put that smile there, I made him that happy, and my chest swells with pride.

  


  


Mom's standing on the porch when we pull into the driveway, and she's hurrying down the steps as soon as my door's open. I step out of the car, and for a moment, she just stands there, looking at me…then tears start welling in her eyes.

"My baby…" she sighs wetly, and even though I don't know what I might have done, guilt settles over me. I step forward and wrap my arms around her and she hugs me tight, tighter than dad had. She's only hugged me like this once before… "Oh, Honey. Oh, Matt, I'm so sorry." She presses hurried little kisses to my cheek. "I'm so sorry, Honey. Wh-what I said–"

"Mom, 's okay. I know. Dad talked t' me ahlready. It's ohkay," I tell her, and this time, I know I mean it.

  



	6. Chapter 6

  


Nate and I have been sitting in the driveway for at least 20 minutes. He's leaning back against the side of the car, hands on his face, head back; I'm sitting between his feet, legs crossed, my hands on his shins. His hands are still shaking with the spike of adrenaline, and his breaths are still a little hiccup-y, but they've slowed.

  


Just after Mom had let me go, she'd looked over my shoulder, smile on her lips, but just as quickly, it had fallen away. "Honey…" I'd turned my head and the sight had made my chest ache — Nate had had a hand braced on the car, his head bowed and his shoulder heaving as Dad stood close, trying to coax him into breathing slower. Mom had told me she'd be in the living room when we were ready, and I'd gone to Nate, vaguely aware of Dad carrying our bags into the house.

  


"Y're doing good, Baby…nice, slow breaths…that's good," I assure him, my hands rubbing up to his knees and back down. "How're you feelin'?"

"F-fingers…tingle." He manages shakily.

"’S the adrenaline waring off, 's almost over. Can I have y'r hand?" He drops a hand from his face and bring it down toward my lap, gently massaging from fingertip to wrist, and back down. "I know ya do it better, but, 's it helpin'?"

He nods, opening his eyes, and changes his breathing to inhale through his nose. "She…has your…you have the same…the same eyes…the color."

"Yeah. Mom used to joke that that w'z the only proof Dad d'n't give birth t' me. We look almost identical as babies."

He's smiling as he offers me his other hand, and I repeat the process. "Can I s-see them?"

"The pictures? Sure. But y' cain't laugh."

  


  


It's comfortably quiet when we head inside, the distant sound of some day-time TV crap coming from the living room. There's a bottle of water, dripping with condensation, and a bowl of mixed grapes sitting on the kitchen counter and a little smile tugs at my mouth. I have to open the bottle for him, 'cause his hands are still a little shaky, but almost as soon as the bottle is in his hands, it's at his mouth and it stays there until it's halfway empty.

He's a little breathless as I offer the bowl to him; he plucks out a few grapes and pops one into his mouth, chewing slow and careful. I grab my own little handful, shoving the fruit into my mouth. Juice dribbles down my chin as I try to chew; Nate smiles, his lips parting, but doesn't quite laugh, and reaches to wipe the mess away with the backs of his fingers. I have to give him a thumbs up as a thank you because my mouth is too full to manage words. He licks his fingers clean, sending heat trickling down my spine, and pops the last two grapes into his mouth.

"Wanna get unpacked, first?" I ask as he chews. "Take a minute t' settle in?" Nate averts his gaze, eyebrows pinching together a bit in that _I'm overthinking_ way. He looks back at me when I touch the pad of my thumb to his chin. "It's okay. Mom's in the livin' room when we're _ready_. If y're not ready, we're not goin' in; she knows that, 'n' it's perfectly fine."

Nate huffs a soft sigh and dips his head to touch a featherlight kiss to my thumb.

  


My room is _almost_ as I left it — framed posters still hang on the walls; my Marvel chess set is still on the bookshelf, chess board propped up behind it; my old computer still stands sentinel on the desk across the room — but the twin bed I remember has been replaced with a queen. Nate touches my arm, a silent request, and I step aside; he takes exceedingly careful steps onto the room, as if he's afraid of disturbing the carpet fibers beneath his shoes. I lean on the doorframe and watch him.

He goes to the bookshelf first, half hidden behind the door. His finger sweeps over the thick spines of computing manuals and textbooks as he scans their titles. After a moment, he looks over at me, eyebrows raised as if to say _You've read all of these?_ I nod at him, purposely putting a smug smirk on my face.

He rolls his eyes playfully and goes to the desk, laying a hand on the surface as he leans in to peer at the cork board hanging above it — there isn't much pinned to it: a 1st place ribbon from a science fair and a picture of me with my project; a picture of some old friends and I down at Ridge Ferry park; a dried up leaf that Ty picked up for me on the walk home from his first day at kindergarten; old appointment reminders; a handful of affirmations, suggested by my former therapist, scribbled on post-it notes.

Something comes over me as I watch Nate moving around my childhood bedroom — something anxious and protective, comforting and warm and wistful, all at once.

I wish the picture on the cork board was a picture of us as kids, I wish he'd grown up here with me instead of bouncing around foster homes…but it's too late for that now.

My heart aches for the childhood he should have had, for the man he could have become…but some selfish part of me knows that if things hadn't happened the way they did, he probably wouldn't be here with me now, I might never have met him, and that hurts just as much.

Nate's breath catches in surprise as I wrap my arms around his middle, hugging him to me. Almost immediately, he relaxes, lifting a hand to hold and squeeze my bicep. I can feel myself smiling as I duck my head, hiding my face in his hair and breathing him in. He smells like lemongrass and verbena (so says the shampoo bottle in his shower {what even is verbena?}) and a little like clean sweat. "’M really happy y're here with me."

"…So am I," he whispers — my heart feels ten times lighter with the thought that that's probably all he'll say for the rest of the day, and it was just for me.

  


There's a moment when, as he has the suitcase unzipped on the bed, he seems to forget what he's doing, hand frozen mid-motion as he'd been reaching for a shirt, and stares vacantly at the clothes. After only a moment, he seems to snap out of it, blinking a few times, and carries on as if nothing had happened — I wonder for a moment if he even knows it did.

I want to ask him what happened, if he's okay, but I know he won't answer me; he's mentally wrapped himself in his non-verbal security blanket, and he's not showing any signs of stepping out of it anytime soon.

When everything's unpacked and fastidiously stored in the chest of drawers, Nate goes to the closet to put the suitcase away. He pushes the door open, then…freezes. "Whut?" I call, instantly panicked, and stand up from the bed to join him. "Babe, whut is it?" He turns to look at me over his shoulder and a disbelieving grin breaks across his face. "Whut?" I try again, close enough now to peer over his shoulder.

Stacked haphazardly in the back corner are a few (maybe, possibly taken without having been paid for because I was an asshole fourteen year old) issues of _Sports Illustrated_ , and my face is on fire, the heat radiating to the tips of my ears and down my neck. Nate quirks an eyebrow at me, but I can see in his eyes that he's laughing. "Oh, whut, like you di'n't have some _Men's Health_ stashed s'm'where." The dark flush in his cheeks is all the answer I need. "Thought so. Glass houses, Baby," I tease, pressing my lips to his overly-warm cheek.

  


We lay on the bed for long minutes, staring up at the ceiling like we're cloud-watching, then Nate turns his head to look at me. He smiles when I do the same.

His jaw is tense and baby-skin smooth, but I don't remember the last time I saw him take a razor to his face. A tentative hand comes up to caress the dusting of stubble on my jaw, and then, gentler still, a finger brushes the skin beneath my right eye.

Nate sighs then, loudly, almost sounding defeated, looks at me a moment more, then stands. He glances pointedly between me and the door. "Ready?" He nods, a jerky little movement, and I get to my feet.

  


My hand aches with a dull, pulsing throb where Nate's panicked grip is so desperately tight.

Mom and Dad both look up as we step into living room; Dad flashes us a smile and turns back to the TV; Mom's smiling softly, the gentle expression laden with concern. "Hey, Honey, feelin' better?" Nate nods, Adam's apple bobbing hard. He stands rigidly beside me, trying to do breathing exercises, I think, but his inhales are too sharp and the exhales are choppy. "’M glad. I used t' do that f'r Matt whenever his anxiety acted up; thought it might be some kinda help t'you, too." He nods again; his mouth opens but moves soundlessly, words sticking to his tongue. "Y're welcome, Sweetheart," she says, voice gentle, and Nate breathes a tiny sigh of relief.

I run my thumb over his knuckles, hoping to ease some of the painful-looking tension in his body; his grip on my hand loosens just enough that it isn't painful anymore. "Plum?" I feel my face flush and Nate looks up at me, the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile. "Poke y'r head in an' say hi t' y'r brother, wudja? He wants t' give you your space, but he's excited to see you."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mom flashes a bright smile. "Thank you. Now, I'm thinkin' of gettin' dinner started in about a half hour, you boys're welcome t' lend me a hand if ya wahnt."

Nate's nodding as soon as the words are out of her mouth. "Love to," I answer for him.

  


As we leave the living room, Nate tugs me gently toward the kitchen, probably to grab another bottle of water — the fact that it's almost hot out this time of year is probably pretty uncomfortable for him.

When we get to the kitchen, there's already someone there, rifling through one of the cabinets. Tyler turns when he hears us come in. "Well, look who it is," he grins, pausing with a cookie halfway to his mouth. "My second favorite same-sex couple!"

" _Second_ favorite? Who the hell's first?"

With a ridiculous waggle of his eyebrows, he tells me, "Ellen Page and Jennifer Lawrence."

"Y're an idiot," I laugh, and he smiles, shoving the cookie into his mouth whole. Nate gives my fingers a gentle squeeze, then pulls his hand away and goes to the fridge. "Mom says ya been chasin' y'r tail waitin' for us to get here," I tease. Ty frowns, flipping me off as he chews. "How ya holdin' up w'out Luc around? Dad says ya might be losin' it."

"Mm, whut, 'cause 'a Rocket?"

"Rocket," I deadpan, an amused and disbelieving smile creeping onto my face. I hear a water bottle being cracked open beside me. "Rocket the raccoon? That tree out back your Groot?"

Tyler rolls his eyes. "What else was I s'pposed t' name 'im?"

"Nothin'. That thing's gon' give you rabies."

"I ain't afraid 'a needles."

  


Tyler and I take a seat at the breakfast table on the other side of the room; Nate stays where he is, sets down his water, and curiously opens up a cupboard. "So really, how ya doin'?" I ask again, and he tells me — Freshman year isn't so bad. All the juniors and seniors he's bumped into (both figuratively and literally) have been pretty cool; he already has a crush on a girl on his chemistry class that has "the brownest eyes"; Mom and Dad were pretty down for a while about Luc being gone, but they perked up after the first few update calls from him; it was too quiet for the first couple weeks, but he's getting used to it…

Apparently eager to change the subject, he swivels in his chair, calling over his shoulder, "So, hey, Nate?" At the sound of his name, he peeks around the cabinet door and Ty continues, "You so quiet 'cause y're nervous?" He nods a little sheepishly. "Well, if it helps any, I think y're alright…" Nate smiles brightly, cheeks dusted pale pink. "…Even if ya are way shorter than I thought. Y're, what, four foot nothin'?"

A look of mild annoyance settles on Nate's face at that and he holds up a hand, five fingers splayed, pauses, and tucks three into a loose fist. My eyebrows lift in surprise. "5'2”, baby? Really? I'm 5'9”. That's a li'l over half a foot difference…" A small smile lifts one side of his mouth and he shrugs a shoulder.

"5'9”? Thought you were taller'n that. Thought Luc's 5'9”."

"Might be. Nick's the tall one."

"What's he, 6'1”? Guess he gets it fro…"

It takes me a couple minutes to realise that Tyler's voice has faded out; I've been watching Nate familiarising himself with the kitchen: peeking into drawers, bending down or standing up on his toes to peer into cabinets, fingers glancing over the dials on the stove, poking his head into the fridge… He wanders over after a few minutes — apparently happy enough that he knows what's where — his gaze fixed on the wall behind me, where four aprons are hanging with little, wooden, hand painted by their respective owners, name plaques above them.

He comes to stand beside me, laying a hand on my shoulder as he looks at them. I look over my shoulder and see him holding the edge of my old apron, dark blue material held in gentle fingers as he pulls it away from the wall a little so he can see it better. There's a soft smile on his face as he takes in all the _Pokémon_ themed patches ironed or hand stitched onto it — my ten year old self was convinced I was going to be a _Pokémon_ trainer, and I had to have an appropriate apron.

"Jesus, lookit the two 'a you." Ty laughs. "All smiley and touchy-feely, cain't keep y'r eyes offa each other."

"Can ya blame 'im? Lookit me. I'm an Adonis." Nate rolls his eyes, weaving his fingers into my hair giving the gentlest tug as they comb down to the base of my skull; a muted zing of pleasure zips down my spine. He scratches there lightly, then takes his hand and attention away, returning them to the apron.

"More like Michael Angelo's _David_ ," Tyler laughs so hard at his own stupid fucking joke that even reaching across the table and smacking him on the head probably wouldn't shut him up.

But I'm grinning, shaking my head at his ridiculousness, and I can hear the soft puffs of Nate's muted giggles behind me. "I oughtta bust y'r face in, ya li'l shit. Make you look like a Jackson Pollock."

"Try it, Davey!" He guffaws.

"Y're a dick, y'know that?" I grumble, a token protest. Truth is, I missed this, hanging out with my baby brother and making him laugh, even if it's at my expense.

  


When his laughter finally dies down, Mom's voice sounds from the doorway that leads into the hall. "All my boys have aprons," she says, and Nate starts with a gasp, whipping around to face her. Both of them are wearing slightly guilty expressions. "Sorry, Honey, di'n't mean t' scare you… You about ready t' make a start?"

"Mom's got you in the kitchen already? Y'know, ya can say no, she cain't ground _you_ ," Tyler teases lightly.

Mom speaks up for him, "Nate, bein' a pleasant young man, _offered_ to help." Nate blushes, smiling diffidently, and ducks his head.

"You don't have to try _that_ hard to make a good impression," he winks.

"Boy, shush!" Nate flinches just a little; I reach up and lay a hand on the small of his back, hoping to rub out the tension I feel there with gentle motions. "Y' should keep all this in mind if anyone ever takes ya t' meet their parents. Now if y're not gonna help, take y'r teenager stink 'n' get outta my kitchen."

Tyler gasps dramatically, laying a hand on his chest. " _Rude_ , Mother! Just wan'ed t' spread a little joy, and this is the thanks I get? Ain't doin' it again."

" _Tyler. Joshua_. You spend another 20 seconds in this kitchen 'n' y're grabbin' an apron."

He turns right around with a _Noooope!_ and hurries out.

Mom sighs fondly, shaking her head, then looks at me. "Thought y' raised him better th'n that."

"Me?"

"You an' y'r brothers," she amends. "Y'r Dad and I already had three teenagers, 'n' got that one through teethin', weenin', potty trainin', terr'ble twos; we did our part; Tyler's teenage years're on th' three'a you."

"Fair," I nod. "Well, he's not breakin' inta old people's houses, right? Not stealin' cars or torturin' small animals? Then he's fine. Prob'ly."

"Smartass," she chuckles. "That's the problem with Jeevas men, Nate–" he looks at her, eyes screaming _I'm paying attention_ "–they're smartasses, all of 'em; and they think they're _rrreeal_ funny."

Nate nods solemnly, a silent _Believe me, I know_ , but when he turns and looks at me, he's smiling warmly. There's something in that smile, and I don't know what it is, but makes my chest feel pleasantly warm and full, makes me smile back…makes me want to kiss him. But then he shifts his gaze and starts heading toward the counters.

  


We stay in that kitchen for over an hour, and Mom chats to him easily, unfazed by the lack of a reply. I stand back, leaning on an unused counter — close by in case Nate needs me — watching them. Watching _him_. Watching him subtly adjust the placements of the ingredients Mom sets on the counter. Watching him scrub potatoes with such meticulousness that I'm almost surprised they aren't cartoonishly sparkling when he's done. I watch the tension slowly drain from his shoulders, his back, watch him light up under little praises, watch little smiles lift the corners of his mouth as Mom tells him stories that make my face burn with embarrassment.

By the time Mom's telling Ty to set the table, Nate's looking nearly _comfortable_.

He's tense again as we sit at the dining table, glancing nervously at the serving dishes laid out. "You eat as much or as little as you like, Hon. Y're welcome t' whatever y' want," Mom tells him. "And _thank you_ for all your help this ev'nin'."

Nate manages to meet her eyes, just long enough to smile at her, and I can't help myself — I lean over and kiss his cheek, and his face practically _glows_ red. "Y'did a real good job," I tell him, and his smile strengthens.

Getting food on his plate is easy enough — he's not comfortable to ask for things (and to be fair, he's usually like that at home) so I just offer him everything in turn, and pass him what he nods at — even if it isn't much; he ends up with some greens, a little mashed potato, and a small corn fritter. As he eats, he keeps casting glances at Mom and Dad, like he's waiting for them to tell him off, and he seems surprised (and relieved) by it every time that they notice him looking, and smile at him.

There's chatting and laughing and Tyler telling us how one of his idiot friends got stuck trying to jump the fence into the mini-golf course, when I feel someone bump my leg. I look up from my plate and Ty, without faulting his story telling stride, casts a pointed glance at Nate.

He's staring unblinkingly at his plate, fork in hand, his body frozen save for the slight movement of his shoulders as he breathes.

Anxiousness grabs my gut and yanks it down to my feet, twisting it up tight. _How long has he been like this? What caused it? Why didn't I notice?_ I set my fork down and push my chair back from the table. "Would y'all 'scuse us f'r a minute?"

Mom frowns worriedly as she catches sight of Nate. "’Course, Honey, take y'r time."

I mumble a thanks and stand. Nate blinks dazedly at me as I take the fork from his hand, and goes without protest as I help him to his feet and guide him out the room.

  


I lead him down the hall with a hand on the small of his back, ease him onto the couch, and kneel in front of him so that we're almost eye to eye.

"Nate, Baby, can you hear me?" He's looking right at me, but I don't know if he's _seeing_ me. I take hold of his hands, resting our joined hands on his knees. "Come on, Baby. Come on back… Can you hear my voice, feel my hands? Can you squeeze 'em for me?" His grip stays slack. "You're okay, Baby, ev'rythin's okay…"

After a few minutes of murmured encouragements, he gasps sharply through his nose, blinking away the fog behind his eyes, fingers clenching my hands with a little more force. " _There_ y' are. Hey, Baby. Remember where ya are?"

His mouth moves silently as he nods. "Georgia," he manages, voice thin and shaky and whisper-soft. "Y-y-your parents' house…the, the dining room?"

"Good, that's good. We were in the dinin' room when ya zoned out, we're in the livin' room, now." He nods, looking around the room like he's making sure everything adds up. "Can y'tell me whut happened?" I ask when his eyes come back to me. He looks conflicted then guilty as he shakes his head — he wants to tell me, but he can't. "That's okay. Still hungry? Wanna go back in?" He gives a tiny shake of his head, biting at the inside of his lip. "Alright, I'll take care of y'r plate." I try to keep my tone light; he hadn't managed to eat much, and the thought doesn't sit well with me.

He squeezes my hands again, carefully shifting forward until he's off the couch and kneeling on the floor with me. Gently, he pulls his hands from mine, looping his arms around my shoulders instead, and leans into me. I wrap my arms around his waist, hugging him close, cooing into his ear as he buries his face in my neck. "You're okay, Baby. Y're alright. Ev'rythin's fine… Y' di'n't lose any time, y're right where you should be… No one's mad, an' no one's upset, okay?" I feel him nod against my skin, then he's trembling and shimmying closer, until we're pressed together from chest to hip (if a little unevenly).

We stay that way until the ache in my knees is almost too much to bear, and I sit beside him instead, leaning back against the couch, with my legs stretching out in front of me.

Nate curls himself around me, head tucked under my chin, a leg across my lap, his body pressed so close that I can _feel his stomach_ rumbling against _my_ ribs. He's got a fistful of my shirt, sluggishly rubbing the material between his fingers. I wrap my arms around him — one around his back, hand under his shirt so I can rub arcs into his waist with my thumb, the other laying along his thigh, hand idle on his hip.

I can only hope that whatever caused this passes, that maybe we can talk about it, that the next few days are easier on him.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took FOREVER because my muse is a fickle bitch, depression is an absolute asshole, and lately I've been working 12 hour night shifts.  
> Anyway, hope this is worth the wait!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the tags have been updated, and if you've read them, you know what that means…!  
> You- oh, you don't? Okay, uh…well, it means there's now sex in this fic. More specifically, in this chapter.  
> It's more the emotion than the act, but the act is (kinda vaguely) talked about.  
> If you want to skip the "scene" look out for — _Every needy press of mine is met with slow, deliberate, tenderness. "…Okay…"_ And then for — _We're pressed so close together that I can feel every steady breath he takes, his chest moving against my back as it rises and falls._
> 
> Happy reading!

  


It's been two weeks since we flew home. Well, twelve days; and seventeen days since that _moment_ in the dining room.

Every waking moment since then has been darkened by dread, made heavy by the feeling of impending doom.

No…doom isn't the right word. Doom is an asteroid crashing to Earth, a Pompeii-esque volcanic eruption — obvious, terrifying, unavoidable — but there have been warning signs, there has been time to make peace with the idea of it.

This feels like an _ending_. Just as terrifying, equally unavoidable. There is no talk, no warning signs, just a sudden, terrible darkness. Suffocating, immobilising.

I know that this will end, but I don't know _how_.

  


Unless I end it. Save myself the pain of having my heart stolen away and shattered. Take it back and beat it back into my chest, tuck it away inside me, bruised and aching, but safe…

  


Sickening guilt fills my stomach. I feel breathless, like my lungs are trying to collapse to keep the words from coming out. My heart is racing, beating so hard that it feels like it's breaking itself apart. It feels like my throat is trying to constrict around a jagged piece of glass. Every breath chokes me. Nervous sweat lingers just beneath my skin. My eyes prickle and burn. My voice is a pathetic whimper, "I-I-I can't. Us. I can't."

"… _What…?_ No, Nate, j-just…" The words die on his tongue and he swallows them thickly. He's shaking his head as he speaks again, "It- it's- it's not over like that," he tells me.

"I need to go." Tears pool in my eyes, blurring the hurt on his face. I make a move to stand and Matt's body surges forward, an urgent yet gentle hand grips my knee.

"No. No, y-you need to tell me why. If it's somethin' I did, or, or somethin' I can do, y' need t' give me that chance," he insists, voice shaky.

I feel that place in my mind coming open, trying to pull me in, to tuck me away in the safety of silence. "You- no, you didn't- I- it's not- Matt, I-" Broken sentences tumble from my mouth, and I know they don't make sense, but I almost can't remember how to fix them, the ability to vocalise is slipping through my fingers and I don't think I can keep ahold of it.

"’It's not you, it's me’; is that what y're goin' for? You know what? I think it _is_ me. And I think it's you. I think we have somethin' really good here, and I think you're scared." Matt says, voice low and unsteady. The tears spill over, then, and I can see his face. I see the hurt I'm causing and the pressure on my chest is unbearable. I don't want to hurt him, I just wanted him to let me go. It had always been so easy for everyone else…I never thought that it would be different for him.

  


Boyfriends have walked away because, _"Look, you're really cute and really sweet, but all the weird is just too much, y'know?"_

Because, _"I can't handle all of_ …this. _It's driving me nuts. I can't do it, it's crazy. Sorry."_

Because, _"It's just not gonna work. We're too different."_

And so many times I have been promised home, affection, family. And each time, without fail, the promise has been broken.

Family, I've heard, is supposed to love unconditionally. Family is supposed to be forever.

The family I've known doesn't love badly behaved little boys.

The family I've known doesn't love little boys with crushes on other little boys.

The family I've known doesn't love boys who starve themselves to punish themselves because it's all they've ever known, and they haven't yet learned they aren't bad by default.

The family I've known doesn't love boys who are broken, not when have good, whole, _normal_ children of their own.

The family I've known can't love boys who are gay, because _"that lifestyle is wrong, those people are sick and they need help"_.

The family I've known doesn't love you when there are so many others to be dealt with; they feed you, clothe you, but only, it seems, because they must.

The family I've known doesn't love you after you turn 18; they bring you in, promise tolerance and affection and security, they guide, they aid; they garner your trust, let you believe _for years_ that you have found your place. And then they send you away.

They leave you heartbroken. They leave you wondering what you've done or said wrong. They leave you searching yourself for that flaw you must have, because why else would they not keep you, why else would they not love you. They leave you…

They leave you.

  


"Nate, please–"

"Everyone leaves," I whisper, forcing the words through the tightness in my throat. Matt falls silent. "They walk away. Send me away…and it hurts. I thought…every ti-time, I thought it…might work. But I was wrong. I thought that I could be hhh-happy, that- that I would have a _place_ , but…" My head suddenly aches with the effort, but I keep forcing words out. "I can't…y-you-you're… You're t-too much to lose. I can't… You…make- make me- m-make me feel…whh-worth something, feel _good_ , fffeel luh…l-loved… Th-th-that's all I ever wanted, but I can't have it."

Matt's staring at me, sapphire eyes gleaming wetly, and full of so much hurt — I can barely hold his gaze, but I can't look away.

Then he's reaching for me, gently drawing me into his arms. Slowly, he lays back on the couch, easing me with him. His body is warm, firm around mine. Secure.

He feels like home.

He feels like everything I ever wanted, and I cling to him, a wordless plea to keep me together as my sobbing threatens to break me apart. "I'm ghh-go-going to lose you. I _can't_ lose you. It- I'll… _Please_ , p-please just _let me go_ … I have to go."

His voice comes from far away, soft in my ears and rumbling beneath me. "Shhh…stay with me. Breathe… Don't go, not like this… Breathe, baby… You're okay, I'm here. I'm not goin' anywhere, I promise… Shh… I'm right here…"

My heart hurts, desperately soaking up his promises but fighting to keep them from settling too deep. My body trembles from the conflict, muscles tense, bones aching. I need these words. I need them to be true. But I know they can't be. They've never been before, they won't be now. I love him. _I love him_. I love him and I'm going to lose him. He'll leave me or get sick of me and send me away. And it will devastate me.

I think that maybe I understand now, if only in the slightest, how Matt feels in the moments before he's digging his fingernails into his arms, clawing at the skin until it's burning red, scored with angry welts, close to breaking. There's this… _something_ inside of me, threatening to tear me open unless I find a way to release it.

Almost unaware of the motions that lead to it, I'm kissing him, desperate and breathless, whispering pleas between presses of trembling lips. "Need you… Please, Matty… Please… Need you…"

Every needy press of mine is met with slow, deliberate, tenderness. "…Okay…"

  


I hardly remember getting to the bedroom. With only a little more clarity, comes the removal of clothes, the lingering looks and gentle touches on newly-bared skin…his fingers gingerly easing me open… But so startlingly clear is his slow and careful press into me.

My fingers roam over his skin, press into his ribs, his shoulder blades, his hips, his back, greedy for the feel of him, desperate to have him closer. Every wordless moan he draws from me, every breathy utterance of his name, every kiss pressed to his neck, his shoulder, his lips, is a plea — _stay…I need you…stay with me…keep me_ …

The gentle rocking of his hips, the groans breathed onto my skin, every twitch of fingers on my hip and each kiss matched feels like a promise — _I'm here…I've got you…I'm staying and you're staying with me_ …

Embers of pleasure glow in the pit of my stomach, burning brighter, hotter, with every motion — chasing out the fear, the doubts, the uncertainty, pain, and loneliness. Lifting me above them, burning them away, leaving no inch of me untouched by the brightness, leaving nowhere for dark thoughts to linger. Replacing it all with comfort, closeness, affection and Matt, _MattMattMattMatt_. It's all so much, so good, so perfect. I cry out for him, the litany in my head rushing from my lips, trying in vain to bring him closer as all the negativity spills from me, hot-sticky-wet-white between us. With just a few more rolls of his hips and groaning my name against the skin of my neck, he follows me into this blissful place.

  


  


We're pressed so close together that I can feel every steady breath he takes, his chest moving against my back as it rises and falls. His legs are tangled with mine, an arm over my waist, tucked close to my chest, holds me to him, and every so often, he'll brush the softest kiss onto my neck or shoulder.

I want to let these feelings — _home, wanted, loved_ — lull me into sleep, but I'm afraid they may be gone when I wake, and the doubt will have come back. I hug Matt's arm tighter to my chest and he kisses me again.

Then his lips are at my ear. I hear him draw a breath to speak, but he hesitates, kissing just behind my ear, and tries again. "…I think we should talk," he whispers, "when y're ready."

Mindful of his closeness, I nod, ever so slightly. "Soon," I promise. "Just…a little while longer."

"As long as you need, baby. Imma be here."

A soft contented sigh drifts from me as his words settle warm in my chest; the low, sweet, drawl smoulders in my belly.

  


I can't be sure when it happened, but at some point I must have fallen asleep; when I open my eyes, the windowpane is beaded with water from a rain shower that had been and gone, and I don't remember a moment of it.

Matt's breaths are slow and even, but I know he isn't asleep — he's pressed just as close as before, legs still tangled with mine, and though he's almost as much of a cuddler as I am, he's always needed a little ’wiggle room‘.

"Baby? You awake?" Comes a quiet murmur.

"Mhm."

"It's about time t' eat. Think ya can manage a li'l somethin'?"

I don't know that I can, but my stomach rumbles wantonly at the mention of food, and I know I should try. So I nod. "Okay."

A little sigh (of relief, most likely) fans gently over my skin. "I gotta go grab some stuff, okay? Be as quick as I can, promise." I mumble another affirmative at him, then he's pressing a lingering kiss to the nape of my neck and gingerly pulling away.

I roll onto my back to wait for him, trying to listen for sounds of his movement. He comes back a few short minutes later with the whole bowl of fruit salad from the fridge, two forks, and a couple bottles of water. I sit up then, goosebumps breaking out over my arms, and take a few things from him so he can climb back into bed. Matt shivers when he's back under the blankets, grumbling something about _naked_ and _bad idea_.

We eat and drink in comfortable quiet — Matt picks out most of the apple pieces and grapes for himself, but finds watermelon or pineapple chunks to feed me, even if there's a piece of fruit on my own fork.

When we finish, Matt returns everything to the kitchen and we settle back into bed, facing each other, now. He's got his head awkwardly pillowed on one arm to save the pressure on his glasses. His other hand holds mine in the space between us.

I stare at him in silence — admiring the perfect Cupid's bow of his upper lip and the fullness of the lower, the little beauty marks dotting the smooth skin of his cheek, thick lashes framing big, night-sky eyes — until I've gathered the courage to admit, "We should talk now."

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Happy reading!" was a big fat lie and I'm so sorry. I love Nate, I really do, so I don't know why I keep doing this him…!
> 
> Sorry if this one feels a little rushed, but this is how it came to me…I feel like it kinda works though, to reflect his mental state… 
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

I talk late into the night and early into the next morning. I talk until my mouth is dry and my throat feels tired.

I've told him before that _"my mother was abusive and negligent"_ , told him that _"I'd been in six different foster homes in two years"_ ; but now, I _tell_ him.

I tell him everything.

My voice trembles as I relay the phrases that still ring in Her voice in the back of my head on bad days: _Why won't you be a good boy…?_  
_Are you trying at all…?_  
_I'm not mad, I'm disappointed…_  
_I just want a good boy that'll do as I ask…_  
_I try so hard to teach you the proper way to do things, but you just don't learn…_  
_I'm so disappointed…_  
_I've told you time and time again…_  
_If you loved me, you'd be a good boy and do as I ask, but you don't, do you…?_  
_No. Leave it alone. If you aren't going to do it right, don't bother. You'll just make more of a mess for me to deal with…_  
_Maybe I'm spoiling you. Is that it? You don't try because you don't think you have to…?_

My stomach knots and churns as I force memories of reduced portions and denied meals into words. My jaw aches with the ghosts of gripping fingers as I tell him how the worst offences — the definition ever-changing — meant being forced to ingest milk, despite, or maybe because of, my allergy and how it made me sick.

When it becomes too much, when remembering it all forces me into the security of silence, he draws me close and combs his fingers through my hair, strokes down my spine, coaxing my voice back out.

I have to pull away a bit before I can continue; I need to be able to see him to ground myself, to remind myself that I'm not there anymore; these aren't open wounds anymore, they've healed, scarred over, these are only phantom pains.

There are tears in Matt's eyes, a few escaping and leaving glistening trails across the bridge of his nose and down over his temple, into his hair. He doesn't try to wipe them away, just takes my hand and brings it to his mouth, pressing the backs of my fingers to his lips as he listens.

I explain that the scene of the happy family at the dinner table, the painful familiarity of feeling like the odd one out, the replaceable, disposable piece that never quite fit, is what had caused me to disassociate that evening in his parents' dining room — he looks like he wants to apologise, but he doesn't, he just kisses my fingers and lets me talk — I tell him how it had felt like falling, the descention too quick to be stopped.

  


I tell him about the Griggs', my first foster family. My first inclination that maybe not everyone was okay with boys liking boys.

The Griggs' — Michelle, her twin 14 year old daughters, and her four-almost-five year old son, Cody — had let me be a part of their family for only a month.

Brooke and Bailey had convinced me to play Truth Or Dare with them. I'd chosen truth. I'd seen some of the dares they'd thought up for their friends… They demanded I tell them who my current crush was, and terrified to face the punishment for lying, I told them: his name was Jacob, he had curly dark hair and pretty dark skin and he smiled at everyone.

The twins exchanged a _look_ , and even though I'd told them the truth, I knew I'd said something wrong. I begged them not to tell anyone and they promised they wouldn't.

  


Not a week later, I overheard Miss Griggs on the phone, quietly expressing concerns that I "might be _that way_ ," and that she "couldn't risk" me possibly "having that kind of influence" on her son.

Four days after that, I sat at the dining table, in the furthest seat from Cody, having my last breakfast with them.

  


The Parks were next; Chris, and his wife, Tara.

In their defence, no one was aware of the extent of the damage that my mother's abuse had caused. They were trying to help me.

Save for keeping my bedroom tidy, they wouldn't let me help around the house — it wasn't something I had to do anymore, I didn't have to keep things clean and tidy for them, they wouldn't get angry at me. They didn't know that I _needed_ to do it, and I didn't know how to tell them. At the age of 12, I'd been earning meals (if many of them could even be called that) for almost 7 years. I didn't know anything else. They didn't understand why I cried over eating so much as an apple at breakfast and why I was tense until being dropped off at school (where I could stay in at recess, sharpening pencils to earn the apple; and where I could give most of my lunch away to other kids, because I knew there would be a dinner I didn't deserve on a plate in front of me that night). Weekends were harder; they wanted me to play, to have fun — but I didn't have the energy, and I was too hungry.

No one seemed to have any idea what was happening. No one understood why I had lost so much weight. "They w-won't…won't let me h-help. I'm suppos-p-posed to help," I'd confessed to my therapist.

Not long after, I was removed from their care. I know now that it was because they weren't trained to deal with children like me, but the thorn of rejection had buried itself deep under my skin long before I'd learned that.

  


Then there were the Bergmann's. Another happy couple, but Alison and Peter already had children of their own, two boys, seven year old Michael, and three year old Justin.

I was 13 by then and regularly attending therapy, but bad days still far outnumbered the good.

Justin had been hesitantly diagnosed with ADHD, and with his parents reluctant to medicate him, hoping it might mellow out as he matured, proved to be…a bit of a handful.

My… _complexities_ , combined with Justin's needs and Alison's discovery that she was expecting, proved to be too much for them. After almost 28 weeks with them, my social worker was told, "Nate needs a lot of attention and guidance, and…with young children and another on the way, we…we just don't think we can, can do that for him anymore. Not the way he needs, the way he deserves," and I was taken to a boys' home.

  


I was lucky, or so I thought, that they'd found me a new placement after just 10 days.

Tristan Neilson was the most gorgeous boy I'd ever seen, tall and lean with a lopsided smile, sandy blond hair and soft green eyes. He was 17, the only child of a dysfunctional relationship, for which both parties blamed the volatility, and for his own safety, was put into the system. He'd been in the care of Geoff Newbold for two years before I arrived.

Geoff was…opinionated. Especially when it came to _The Gays_. He "raised boys to be boys." He wouldn't stand for "any of that makeup and glitter shit," wouldn't have his boys "turn out to be queers, running around kissin' on boys."

For days those words tormented me. Talk of "fairies" and "sick in the head" and "need to be set straight" kept me up at night. I didn't know what makeup or glitter had to do with kissing boys, but that didn't matter. I wanted to kiss boys, and that was a problem. Miss Griggs had sent me away for liking a boy, and Geoff's voice when he talked about _Queers_ …it scared me. I felt like he _knew_ somehow, and he was biding his time, trying to decide how he was going to punish me.

The fear of the unknown imminent punishment became too much to bear, and late one night I snuck into the living room, snatched the cordless phone, and hid under my bed and called my social worker. I came out to him without knowing that's what I was doing. He assured me that there was nothing wrong with how I felt, or the things I wanted, but made me promise not to tell anyone regardless; he promised he would find a new place for me soon.

After just 16 days under Geoff's roof, I was back in the boys home. I hated it there. It was loud, crowded, the other boys were mean — mocked me for my night terrors, for being weird, and once the whispers of my liking boys began, it only got worse…

I was 14 before I was taken in by the Lees.

  


Kathryn was the woman I wish I'd been born to. She had been the legal guardian of her sister's three daughters for most of their lives. She raised Madison, the youngest, and then 11, from just two years old.

Kathryn treated me like her own child — she helped me with homework; let me help her with housework whenever I liked; eased me into new routines and even homeschooled me for a few months while I settled in. She encouraged my choice of vegetarianism, praised my achievements, consoled me when I failed, worked as closely as she could with my therapist to 'help the recovery process at home'.

When, after almost two years, I had realised and begrudgingly accepted my sexuality, I came out to her. She smiled at me like no one had ever smiled at me before and hugged me, and I cried; she told me to be proud of who I was, and made sure I had the sex education that I needed. She took me to my first Pride event that year — the five of us went with rainbows painted on our cheeks.

She was there when my first boyfriend broke up with me…and the second. She made sure I ate and drank and took my medication, let me cry on her shoulder and promised me that I would find love — it would be the easiest thing and the most difficult all at once, I would find someone to struggle with me, to pull me to my feet and keep me walking, to share my triumphs and my failures in equal measure — and it would be beautiful.

  


I lived with them for four years.

Alice, the eldest and older than me by nearly four years, had long since left home. Lyla, two years older than me, had gone to college out of state the year before, after taking a gap year to decide what she wanted to do. Madison had just started high school when things began to fall apart.

Kathryn's father had fallen seriously ill, and her mother was in no shape to care for him alone. They needed her to care for them, and doing so meant moving to Connecticut.

I was 18, I'd legally left the system, I could go with them… But I couldn't. It felt like the Bergmanns all over again; Kathryn already had a difficult situation, she didn't need me tagging along and making things more difficult for her. I didn't want to burden her.

I would never have come so far without her, and I had no idea how I would ever repay her, but I could try.

So I agreed to stay in New York.

  


…And not once did I hear from my mother. _Not once in all those years_. I didn't want to hear from her, didn't want to go back to her, but she didn't even _try_ to get me back. Just let them take me away…

  


" _Jesus_ ," Matt breathes, tired eyes intent on my face. "How…? _Fuck_. Can- can I…?" I don't know what he's asking for, but I nod anyway; if it's anything that brings him closer, I want it. He does come closer, inches forward until I can feel his breath on my face. His fingers trail down my ribs until his hand rests on my waist, he squeezes gently and brushes a kiss onto my forehead. I sigh as my eyes fall shut. "Y're incredible," he says softly, not quite whispering. "All you been through, all that shit…years of it…an' ya still see th' good in people. God, I wish I was half as, as _good_ as you."

"You are," I manage through the tightness in my throat, "You're just as good." Matt doesn't argue, but I know he doesn't agree. His lips press to my forehead again, and then he's shifting away.

When I open my eyes, he's looking at me, eyes soft and a gentle smile on his face. "I love you." All at once my stomach sinks then surges up into my throat and feels like fireworks exploding as it settles back into place and my skin flushes pleasantly hot. "I don't want ya think 'm jus' sayin' it 'cause a everything ya told me, 'cause that's not it; I've know for a long time now… I love you, Nate."

My heart is beating so hard that I can barely hear myself think. I can't seem to catch my breath, but it feels good. "I love you, too."


	9. Chapter 9

  


My alarm blares beneath the pillow, the phone vibrating with a loud, flat hum. Nate makes an unhappy little noise as I fish the phone out, tapping blindly at the screen until the noise stops.

It takes me a few seconds to remember why the alarm's set — I don't have to work today, but I didn't know Nate was gonna sleep here last night (he usually wakes me up at 6, so there's no need for an alarm); it's 7:55, about time to take my medication. Luckily, Nate's left a few of his pills here in the medicine cabinet — the only upside I can think of to all the _what ifs_ and _just in case_ s that anxiety forces into your head — so he doesn't have to go without.

My eyes burn when I manage to open them but I can't make myself close them again, I can't make myself look away from Nate's sleeping face, all soft and peaceful. He's laying on his side, his left leg hooked over mine, his hand rested low on my stomach.

My chest aches when I think _I almost lost this, I almost lost him_ ; it's like every sensation in my body has rushed to my heart all at once and the force of it is excruciating. I don't know what kind of mess I'd be if I didn't have him anymore. I love him…I need him, and I know now, by some inexplicable, other-worldly means, that he feels the same way about me.

I'm sure if I talked it through with my therapist, she'd tell me that this is some kind of codependence and that it's unhealthy, but I just don't give a fuck. He makes me feel like nothing or anyone ever has before…

I reach back under the blanket to touch his hand, running my fingers up to his elbow and back down. "Hey…" I mumble, too quiet, my voice an airy almost-groan from disuse. "Nate, wake up, sleepyhead." He sighs through his nose, eyes beginning to shift behind his lids. "’S late. Gotta get dosed up. C'mon."

Nate sighs again, a lazy hand sliding up to my chest as he opens his eyes, blinking dazedly.

  


Then he's crawling on top of me, wrapping his arms and legs around me as best he can, hiding his face against my neck. He either doesn't remember, or doesn't care that we're both still naked. "I'm sorry, Matt. I'm so, so sorry," he mumbles, his sleepy voice uncharacteristically rough and rumbly. "I was selfish and cowardly, and…" He trails off, timidly pressing a chaste kiss to my throat.

"Yeah, you were," I agree, wincing at how my own tired voice sounds cold and harsh. Nate flinches, shifting like he might try to move away; I lay my arms across his lower back, and he stays. "But I get it. After- after ev'rything you told me, I get it. Still hurts like a bitch though."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. We'll be okay."

"…We…we aren't now?" He inquires, soft and hesitant, almost sounding afraid to hear the answer.

I almost don't want to tell him. Dragging all that up to tell me last night couldn't have been easy for him, and I don't want to make him feel worse…but I promised I'd always be honest with him, and a little part of me feels kind of _relieved_ that I get to say my piece. "No. N-not far from it, but not 100%. You…you kin'a fuckin' broke ma heart. You didn't trust th't I'd stay–"

"I do," he interrupts, moving his face from my neck so I can hear him better. "I do. I-I just…I was scared. I still am. I've lost every good thing that ever happened to me, I've never had a place to call home, and…" The word cracks and he chokes it down, continuing thickly. "…And you're the _best_ thing. _You're_ home. And I just know–"

"You _think_. You _think_ y're gonna lose me 'cause anxiety is an evil little bastard, and that's what it's put in y'r head." It's only when my fingertips start to tingle that I realise I've been slowly tracing the vertebrae of his spine, from his tailbone, as high as I can reach with only bending my elbow. "You _know_ , or at least I hope you do now, you know that I love you an' I'm not goin' anywhere."

"I know, I do, I know," he rasps, my skin suddenly feeling wet. "I just h-have to try to re-mem-member when I start thinking that way."

  


I know how hard that is. I know exactly what it's like when one nasty little thought wheedles it's way into your head and snatches up all your logic and common sense and runs away with it; what little rationality you have left tries to chase it down but it splinters into a hundred fragments, each one whispering something different, each one as bad as the thing as a whole; you try to round 'em up, destroy 'em, but there's just so many and all the effort leaves you breathless, shaking, exhausted. And sometimes you don't even get 'em all.

Just thinking about it is making me feel a little short of breath, but I ignore it as best I can. "Look at me, Sugar." Slowly — somehow I can tell it's because of tiredness, not hesitation — he pushes himself up, putting most of his weight on one arm, and looks me right in the eye, ignoring the tears rolling down his cheeks. "I'm gonna help ya r'member. Every time I think it, I'm 'unna tell ya I love you. Wh'ever ya need t' hear it, ya tell me. I mean it. I want you to know it, in y'r heart an' in that brilliant, twisted up brain'a y'rs." I reach up, quickly and carefully thumbing warm tears off his jaw. "Ev'rythin' that comes outta m' mouth from now on w' be tellin' you I love you if that's what ya need."

 _He'll leave anyway, I can't do enough for him. He knows, that's why he tried to leave. I'm gonna let him down, and he'll leave. Should've let him go, he deserves bett_ –

"Matt?" The thoughts become a distant whisper as he calls my name, ginger fingers sweeping over my cheek. "Can I…?" He leans in a little, tracing my cheekbone again. "Please?" I tip my head closer to him in a silent invitation, and he takes it, lips meeting mine so softly, like he's afraid I'll break or something.

I don't know what does it — maybe it's the way his lips linger a little longer with the next kiss…and then the next…and the one after that; maybe it's the way he wiggles on top of me to get more comfortable, to get closer; maybe it's the sigh he breathes against my mouth, or the way his heart is beating so hard that I can feel the echo of it against my chest — but I know that I want him closer, I want to lose myself in him again, I wanna try to show him how much I love him, because I know that nothing I can ever do or say will be adequate ( _~it never is~_ ), but if I could convey even just a little…

"Yes. Matty, please. Yes." Nate breathes between little kisses, and I realise that I must've said some of that out loud.

I nod at him, heat and want swirling in my belly, glowing hot under my skin. "We gotta…just…a couple minutes…gotta take care of a few things…then we'll…come right back here…" I murmur hurriedly between the eager presses of lips. Nate makes this noise, a pretty little sound like a moan and a whine of complaint, and nods back at me.

  


Nate's head rests on my belly, more toward my ribs so that I can breathe more comfortably. My fingers comb through his hair as he draws idle patterns on my thigh beneath the blankets. I watch the silky, pale, strands pass between my fingers and wonder how this is happening.

I've stopped trying to understand how someone as compassionate, loving, and vibrant as Nate would want to be with someone like me (all the effort now goes into trying not be beat myself up about it, and to just enjoy it); instead I'm trying to figure out what in _his_ mind is letting this moment happen. Even on days when he's feeling more relaxed there's a routine to be adhered to, though it's much more of a loose beginning, middle, and end, with time for whatever in between.

Rough days like yesterday are never followed up with lazy, sleep in and cuddle days like this. Rough days like yesterday mean waking up at 5:30 and skipping breakfast to clean the kitchen, _because_ … Spending up to half an hour making the bed perfectly, _because_ …Suddenly checking the fridge in a panic, _because_ …

"…Nate, baby, tell me what you're thinkin'?"

He lifts his head, rolls onto his back, and gently lays his head down again, turning his face toward me. "I'm happy to have you and to be with you like this." He takes the hand that had been in his hair and brings it to his lips, brushing a kiss onto the backs of my fingers. "Tomorrow will be…difficult, but I just want to enjoy today, to ignore everything else and just be close to you."

"Are ya sure? I can help, if ya want, I can be right there next t' you."

Nate shakes his head, smiling like he already regrets the decision, but almost doesn't care. "Thank you, but no. I just want to feel… _normal_ , just for a day."

"Ya know we're _both_ a little fucked up, right? I dunno if normal is somethin' we can do."

"Can we just pretend?" He tries quietly, eyes and voice pleading as he looks up at me. "Pretend that all our troubles, and insecurities, and hang-ups don't exist? That we're just a happy, in love couple with chemically balanced brains and happy childhoods…? Just for today? Please?"

I nod at him, throat aching dully like it's trying to tighten. "Yeah," I try, my voice no more than a heavy breath. I swallow and try again. "Yeah, we can do that, Baby, 'course we can."

  


A little while later, after showering together, we order lunch from Nate's favorite place — _The Red Fern_ , on Oxford street — and huddle under the comforter from the bed, sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, and watching _Free!_ while we eat. He gets through his Thai kale salad and a couple bites of my ABLT with apparent ease, and my first thought is how proud I am of him. I hate that the very next thing is how hard it's gonna hit him tomorrow.

"You should be Rei for Halloween next year," he says, trading the empty container in his hand for his glass of lemonade.

"What, 'cause'a the glasses?"

"That, and you have the body for it," he winks, taking a sip and setting the glass back down. "I'd love to see you in a speedo."

I ignore the blush heating my cheeks. "Gon' be ma Nagisa, Sugar?" I drawl, purposely thick, thicker than it ever is back home, and I swear I see Nate's pupils dilate. I keep at it, smiling a slow smirk, probably liking the way he's looking at me a little too much. "Might think twice 'bout dyin' ma hair blue, but guess a speedo ain't too much ta ask for, is it?"

"All those months that I never knew you could sound like this… If my past self had had any idea…" he says, shaking his head. "I think I should be mad at you for hiding it from me."

I barely bite back a laugh. "Be mad if ya wahnto, Sugar. Ah'll jus' hafta make it up t' y'. Sure ah can think'a sumth'n…"

" _Stop_ ," he cries, covering his ears with his hands. "Have mercy on my libido, I beg you!"

Nate smiles at me, dropping his hands as I lean in and press a kiss to his forehead. "Give it another week or two, it'll start fadin' out," I tell him, and he pouts. "Sorry, Baby. Only really comes out when I'm back home."

"…So if we…if we accepted your mother's invitations…?" He says slowly, carefully forming the words.

My stomach flips and I don't know if it's excitement or fear. Telling him that mom had invited us down for Thanksgiving or Christmas, or even both if we wanted, was what seemed to have set him off yesterday… "We don't have to if y' don't feel up to it. I'm more than happy spendin' the holidays with you, just the two of us." I tell him truthfully, smiling and petting his thigh.

He lays a hand on mine and squeezes. "I would be, too, but I think we should go. You should spend the holidays with your family, and I- I think I'll be better this time. I know everyone now. I don't think I'll be as nervous."

"Baby…"

"I plan on being with you for a very, very, _very_ long time," he smiles, "and that means I'm going to be seeing your family again at some point, so I should try to get comfortable being around them."

I can't help but kiss him, then, as soft and sweet as I know how. His lips taste like lemons. "You wanna go for Thanksgiving? Ev'ryone's gonna be there at Christmas; Luc's home for the holidays, and Nick's comin' back, probably bringing Sara with 'im."

"You should be there, too."

"Ya sure?"

"Absolutely. You haven't seen Luc since the start of summer; and when was the last time you saw Nick?" I shrug — it's been a while. "Exactly. You can't _not_ be there. And I have to meet them eventually, don't I? I can't just avoid them for the rest of our lives."

 _The rest of our lives_. Maybe he hadn't meant to say it, or maybe he'd only meant it as a turn of phrase, but my heart swells, filling up my chest, every beat sending a pulse of warmth through my body. _The rest of our lives_. God, I like the sound of that. We've been together for less than five months and we'd known each other for almost a year before that; maybe it's not a _long_ time, but it's _enough_ time, for me at least. I've never fallen this hard this fast, never loved anyone like I love him, and I just know I can't be without him now…I hope I never have to.

"I love you," I say lowly, gently pressing my forehead to his; when I try to look into his eyes, I see one, big, grey eye staring back at me — I'd forgotten this happens, but it doesn't phase me. "Nate…Baby…Sugar…Snowflake…I love you so much. So, so much."

"I love you, too, Matty. More than maple syrup."

A giddy, surprised laugh bubbles out of my mouth. "What?"

He pulls back just a little, his arms loosely circling my neck instead. "I'm Canadian, Baby, maple syrup is a big deal. Swearing on maple syrup is stronger than a blood oath."

" _Y're what?!_ "

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to write how an accent is supposed to sound is apparently _very_ tricky, so if it's distracting, or just plain bad, please let me know and I'll try to fix it.  
>  Also, The Red Fern is a real restaurant in Rochester, New York. I've never been (I'm a Californian living in England), and I'm not affiliated with them in any way. I chose the place because when I did a google search (for vegan restaurants in Rochester), a picture of the place came up and there was a huge rainbow flag outside, so…  
> Anyway! Comments are GREATLY appreciated! *Hint, hint; wink, wink; nudge, nudge*


	10. Chapter 10

  


"Dude. _Hey!_ " I nearly drop my phone in shock when a hand suddenly appears in front of my face, fingers snapping inches from my eyes. I jump back, the chair I'm on making a little noise of protest against the floor. When I look up, Jared's nearly glaring at me. "What is _up_ with you, man? You've been in a funk for weeks."

"Rough patch. It's on it's way out, I think. I'll be fine," I tell him, turning my phone over and over in my hand.

The glare eases up. "Fine never means fine, man. Wanna talk about it?"

I glance around the store; it's surprisingly quiet for a Wednesday. A couple kids who apparently skipped school are browsing today's new releases — it'll stay pretty quiet until about 3:00, after schools have let out, and then it'll pick up again around 6:00 or so, when most people have been released from their day jobs.

It's the lack of input that's getting to me. There's music on, there always is, but it's just background noise that I can't tune into. There's nothing to do, nothing to keep my mind occupied, so it's doing it's own thing, giving me shit to worry about. It's barely noon, there's gonna be _hours_ of this…

"Anything to do with that coffee guy?"

"Huh?"

"Little, pale guy. Brings in coffee sometimes. Usually hangs out in the corner. Did you give him your number or something, waiting on a call? You keep checking your phone." He sounds a little teasing.

I laugh a little. "Oh, you mean Nate. We've been together for months."

"No shit? Knew there was something there. Good for you, man, he's cute." My eyebrows kinda furrow and raise at the same time. "What?"

"Just- I dunno, didn't expect you to say that, I guess."

"’Bout him being cute? What 'cause'a Millie? Guess you wouldn't have known; I tend to keep it to myself, just in case, y'know? Rather not have to deal with assholes about it." He loops a finger through one of the many bands and bracelets adorning his wrist, tugging at it a little — it looks homemade — it's three thin cords, pink, purple and blue, braided together. There's a beat of silence, then, "So, you and Nate; you guys okay?"

I nod, set my phone on the counter…and pick it right back up. "We're good. It's…you know how I get sometimes? Nate's got his own version. He's havin' a rough day today an' I'm worried about him."

"Sorry, Matt, that sucks. You wanna go call him or something?"

"Nah, he won't answer when he's like this. Sent him a few messages, let him know I'm thinkin' about him, but he ain't even read 'em." I sigh, eyes dropping to my phone for a moment. "I know he'll reach out when he's ready, but the waiting feels like shit."

Jared offers a sorry smile and claps a hand onto my shoulder, squeezing for just a moment.

  


Minutes pass like hours. I check the store's social media pages. Neaten up the overstock in the back room. Poke at a few displays. It's something to do, something to keep my hands busy, but not my mind, not really.

My phone rings at around four, just long enough to hear it before the noise stops.

When I call him back, Nate doesn't answer.

  


A little after 7:30 it goes off again, rings longer, and I catch it this time, sighing into the phone, "Hey, Baby." There's no response, but I can hear him breathing. "Nate? You okay?"

"…Matt?" He's quiet, sounds dazed; panic starts creeping down my spine.

"Yeah, I'm here. What's goin' on? You alright?"

"I…I don't feel well…want…can you…?"

"Baby, I…" I glance at the clock — we don't close for half an hour; I'm supposed to lock up. Jared waves a hand to get my attention, mouths _Go_ with a pointed look at the door, and disappears into the back room. I don't need to be told twice. "…I'll be there in 15 minutes." He reappears with my stuff, giving me a lazy thumbs up when I mouth a _Thank you_ at him. "I'm leaving right now, I'll be there soon. Need anything?"

" _You_."

"I'm comin', Baby. I'll be there soon."

  


His apartment _reeks_ of bleach and lemon. The fumes feel like a physical blow to the head, like someone's driven the heel of their hand into my nose, tried to shove it up into my brain. I almost don't want to shut the door behind me, to trap myself in here with the smell, but I do, and I slip my shoes off while I'm at it.

Nate's sitting on the living room floor, looking at me. Everything about him says _defeated_. I cross the room on autopilot, kneeling beside him on the floor. He leans into me, dead weight in my arms. "I'm here, you're okay, I gotcha."

After just a few minutes, all the cleaning-product fumes are starting to get to me, starting to make my head ache. "How you feelin', Baby? Head hurt? Dizzy?" He hums against my chest. "Let's get you some fresh air." I help him up onto the couch, open up the windows, and angle him toward the cool breeze. "I'm gonna get you some water, and air this place out."

Nate makes a little noise of protest as I leave him in the living room with an open bottle of water and a, "Take it slow. Small sips, okay?"

There's nothing I can do about the kitchen; there're no windows in there, but it's not totally separate from the living room, so it should be okay.

The bathroom's the worst. My eyes burn and water a little when I open the door. I flip the light on, out of curiosity — everything in there looks newer than new, shining mirror-bright. The shower curtain is neatly tied up out of the way. Bleach drips sluggishly down the shower walls, into the tub. There's a trash bag tucked into the corner and I bet it's full of used-up cleaning supplies. I don't check; I just flip the switch again, leave the door open wide and move on.

The bedroom is the only room that's escaped the nose-burning chemical smell. It smells like carpet shampoo, laundry detergent, and furniture polish; it's _milder_ , but really _better_. I open the windows as far as they'll go and make my way back down the hall.

Nate's pretty much where I left him, but he's got his arms folded on the windowsill now, and his head rested on top of them. The bottle's on the coffee table, still pretty much full.

I settle on the couch, beside him, elbow propped on the back of it, cheek in my hand. He fidgets, turning his body toward me, lays his head back down on his arms. "Looks real good in here, Baby. Y' did a good job." His answering smile is thin, small, but genuine. "…Think you can talk to me, just a li'l?" He shakes his head, looking sorry. "That's okay; a few Yes or Nos okay with you?" He looks so _small_ when he nods, tired and fragile and vulnerable. I scoot closer, slip my hand under the cuff of his jeans to pet his ankle. His eyes slide shut, but I know he's not falling asleep — he just likes being touched, especially when he gets like this.

I pace my questions, keep my voice low and gentle. His responses are the littlest movements, but I see them just fine.  
"Have you been at this all day…?"  
Yes…  
"Did you drink any water…?"  
Yes…  
"Have you eaten…?"  
No…  
"Take a break at all…?"  
No…  
"Taken your meds…?"  
No…

Nate moves his leg a little closer. I inch my hand up a little higher, cupping his calf. He sighs as I rub the muscle in gentle circles. "You remember when y' fell asleep last night?" This answer takes just a little time; he untucks an arm from beneath his head, pauses, and sluggishly holds up one finger, then two. "About midnight? When did y' wake up?" There's another pause, then he holds up three fingers. Everything in me sinks. "You started right when you woke up, huh? Didn't stop 'til right before you called me the second time…" Nate doesn't answer this time, but I don't need him to. He opens his eyes and meets my gaze, and he looks so _sorry_.

  


It takes a little more leg massaging and some quiet praising about the state of the apartment to convince Nate to take a nap. He argued as best he could, half asleep and voiceless, but he agreed to rest for an hour when I promised I'd wake him to rinse the bleach out of the tub.

I thought about doing it myself when he fell asleep, so he could just eat a little something then shower and sleep, but I knew there was no way that could end well; and when he curled up with his head in my lap and the hem of my tshirt between his fingers, I couldn't bring myself to move anyway.

When the end of the hour rolls around, it's a struggle to wake him. Well, it is for me. He's had three (now four, I guess) hours of sleep to fuel about 16 hours of working, on an empty stomach. I just wanna keep petting his hair and let him sleep. But I don't, because I promised.

I cup his shoulder, give it a gentle shake, and he bolts upright, eyes wide and frantic, gasping loud and sharp through his nose. "Sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

I lay a careful hand on his back. "Shhh sh sh, it's okay, you're okay, it's just me," I assure him, hushed and hurried. "Look at me. It's just me, Sugar, you're alright." His eyes find my face and his panting breaths start to slow. "There you go… With me? You okay?"

He nods. "Sor-" he starts, but changes his mind. "Thank you."

I smile at him, run my hand up his back and down again. "’S alright… Wanna get that shower rinsed?" He nods again.

  


Nate's quiet for a long time. It's not a contented quiet, even though he sighs as he sinks into the warm bath water; it's not a dissociative silence, despite the kinda distant look in his eyes before he shuts them. It's just…thoughtful.

I can already see big, dark bruises on his knees where they're peeking above the water level.

  


"I think…I think I'm okay now," he says, sitting on the end of his bed in a light-colored pair of boxer-briefs, towelling his hair.

The dismissal stings, like an anaesthetic injection in an open wound, like fire and glass being jabbed into my chest, brief, but still fucking _Ouch_. "Uh, yeah, okay, I can go."

Nate blinks at me. "Go?"

"Yeah, if you want."

He shakes his head, resting the towel around his neck. His voice is quiet, sentences short, still deciding between silence and speech. "Stay. I-if you can. If you want to."

I frown a little, I can't help it. "You just said…"

" _Oh_. No, I think I g-got it all out. W-whatever it was." He stands, crossing the space to the dresser I'm leaning against and rests his hands on my hips. "I wasn't…asking you to leave, I meant I feel better."

I sigh, both frustrated at myself and relieved, and duck my head to press my forehead to Nate's. "Fuck. Yeah, 'course. Sorry."

"Stay? Please?"

"Yeah, Darlin', 'course I will… I, imma have to leave early tomorrow though. All my stuff's at home, and I got work at 8. That okay?"

He nods, smiles, tosses the towel in the laundry basket, and takes my hand.

  


I've never been the little spoon before. Nate's wrapped himself around me like a koala, face pressed to the nape of my neck, his warm, even breaths fanning over my skin, and I think I can feel his heartbeat against my back. It's nice, very nice. I like it.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that I'd like to do this as a few smaller works instead of one huge one, so worry not, Matt will get all the love he deserves! 
> 
> ~And some angst of his own~
> 
> …Wait, what?


End file.
